a product of wasted time.

I finished a journal the other day. It tends to be a monumental occasion when I finish a journal. It’s like starting a new chapter, or shedding my skin that’s been a part of me for so long. It’s like discarding an old friend after you’ve grown so close, painful. But also necessary. Like they know too much about you and you need to distance yourself.

I have complicated relationships with inanimate objects, if you can’t tell.

I could try to recall how many journals I’ve accumulated, but I lost count after I stopped labeling them. I think it just started out one day as I attempted to write my great fantasy story and then eventually grew bored with it and branched out into other writing. One day I’ll just sit and read through them all and rediscover myself as I grew up. I know my writing will have changed and matured as I did. And it will be interesting to see what I wrote about and the memories they trigger. There are just some instances where I love looking back at the past – they don’t occur very often. Not that I don’t like my past or have anything against it, I just guess I prefer the present or something similarly cliche and alliterative.

Boredom gives you more time to think. How potentially dangerous. I should be doing something productive with all this time I’m wasting, like wrapping Christmas presents, or actually buying them. I only have four days left, though technically I have until mid-January to scrounge them together.

I love how I use the word ‘scrounge.’

My immediate next thought was on on how strange it sounds in my head. Say it out loud. Now.

So forget the actual tangent I was going to go on. Thinking about it makes me feel like I am a horrible person. Which I’m not.

I hope.

Oh boredom. Darn you.

“I have a joke. A squirrel goes up to a tree and says ‘I forgot to store acorns for the winter and now I am dead.’ It’s funny because the squirrel gets dead.” I love UP, for the record. And my friends.